Coming Back to You
by BrokenGroundsandFlowerCrowns
Summary: Sherlock is shot, and John is left to say goodbye again. Yet, there is an inseparable bond between the two, even in death, which changes their lives.


Nothing had ever hurt so much. Mary, who had lied about her past, pregnancy, even her name, had shot him. Sherlock's entire body ached, and he felt ill as he tried to gasp for air that wasn't there, Moriarty's voice loud in his ears. "It's raining, it's pouring, Sherlock is boring. I'm laughing, I'm crying, Sherlock is dying." Everything was fading as he lay on his back, eyes closed. The world was disappearing with the pain, and to him, it felt like a sweet reprieve. Somewhere far away, he could hear a machine flat-lining.

A doctor stepped into the main lobby with a frown. Catching sight of the blond-haired man who had come in with Sherlock, he walked forward. "Come with me," he said, leading him to a private room.

John stood, following the doctor. He knew what was coming. He'd delivered bad news before. Still, he hoped. Expression stoic, he looked at the doctor as they entered the private room.

The doctor shut the door, looking at John with a mildly sympathetic expression. "I'm sorry to tell you that, despite our best efforts, Sherlock has passed away. We were unable to resuscitate him." The doctor remained quiet, giving John a few minutes to process this information before saying, "If you'd like to see him one more time to say goodbye, you may. I'm very sorry for your loss."

John stared back. No. No. No. "You're sure?" He had to ask. Sherlock couldn't just die. It couldn't be over so quickly.

"Yes, sir. I know this is difficult. If there's anything I can do for you, please let me know."

"Can I see him?"

Hesitating a moment or two, the doctor nodded. He led John into the operating theatre. The nurses and doctors all looked over at John, their expressions mirroring that of the doctor he'd just spoken with.

John looked at Sherlock, who remained still on the operating table, pale, lips tinged blue, a sheet covering the lower half of his body. This was real. Oh, God.

It was like seeing him bloodied on the pavement, but worse. There was no way this was faked. He'd been shot. He'd been _killed._

"Sherlock." John covered Sherlock's hand with his. "I'm so sorry. Fuck. You can't do this, please. I'll do anything. I-I know I begged for a miracle last time, and it took you a bloody long time, but you came back. Please. Please." John choked back tears. "You're my best friend, and you're more. I didn't…I screwed up, with everything, and it was going to be fixed. We were going to fix things. There are so many things I wanted to still tell you. I'm so sorry."  
Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what was going on. He found himself walking forward, and he felt weightless and warm. At the sight of his childhood dog, Redbeard, he knelt down with a smile. He frowned, however, when he heard John's voice from someplace distant.

Yes, it was definitely John's voice. Sherlock frowned as he looked around. John was nowhere to be seen. After hesitating only a moment, Sherlock stood and turned around. All at once, an overwhelming sense of pain crashed over him. He felt like he was suffocating, and his chest ached. Forcing himself out of the room where Moriarty had been, Sherlock stumbled up a seemingly endless amount of stairs before everything grew dark.  
The heart rate monitor, which had been humming the same, monotonous noise, beeped once to indicate a pulse. Then again, and again, Sherlock's fingers twitching.

John's head, which had been bowed, shot up at the sound of the monitor. He put his fingers against of Sherlock's wrist. He could feel a weak, erratic pulse. "Doctor!"

All at once, there was a flurry of movement as the staff realised Sherlock's heart was beating again.

"Sir, you need to leave," one of the nurses said.

John stayed. No one could force him to leave: they were all too busy working on Sherlock, and it seemed no one quite had the heart to force him out.

After three and a half hours, everything was finished. It had taken two blood transfusions, many bags of saline, various medications, and stitches, to get Sherlock stable. He was stable, though.

They moved him into a recovery room, and one of the doctors went to talk to John. "I'm not sure when he'll wake or in what condition" said one of the doctors to John and Mycroft, who had just arrived, "but, we're cautiously optimistic. We'll be checking in every hour or so. If you'd like to visit now, you may."

John looked at Mycroft, who gave a little nod, and the two both went into the room to visit Sherlock. Mycroft had managed to swing a private recovery room for Sherlock, which John didn't find surprising in the least.

Looking at Sherlock, John sighed, sitting in one of the chairs and scooting it closer to the bed. There were lots of machines and wires in the room, and all of it made Sherlock appear small. Heavy gauze covered his chest, and his skin was still pale, though his lips were no longer blue. Still, he was breathing and alive, and that was the important bit, John figured.

"The shooter has been identified and detained."

Mycroft's voice broke John's reverie, and he sat up a bit straighter. "Who was it?"

"Your wife."

The words stunned John, and launched a fifteen minute conversation. There was no child. She had shot Sherlock. Had killed him, technically. Her name wasn't Mary. John wasn't convinced at first, but after an in-depth explanation from Mycroft, he knew that Mycroft wasn't lying. After all, this concerned his little brother's wellbeing: Mycroft cared for little more than Sherlock.

"Just…get rid of the marriage license. I'll sign whatever I need," said John. He ran a hand through his short hair before looking at Sherlock.

"Visiting hours are nearly over for non-family members, but I can have them make an exception for you."

There were advantages to Mycroft's power sometimes. "Yeah, that would be good. Thanks."

Mycroft stood. "Our parents are on their way, so I'll be around." He walked over to Sherlock, grabbing his hand and giving it a small squeeze before turning towards the door. "Let me know if anything changes."

"I will. Thank you."

Nothing changed for seventeen hours. Sherlock began to stir the next evening. His limbs felt leaden, and he felt woozy, chest aching. He began to cough, trying to force his eyes open.

John had just entered the room, and he moved to sit by Sherlock's bed, though he made sure he gave Sherlock his space.

Blinking open his eyes, Sherlock looked around the room. Everything was far too bright, and he couldn't recall what had happened.  
"Hey, Sherlock," John whispered, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You're all right. You're in the hospital. You're okay, though."

Hearing John's voice climbed Sherlock. He caught sight of his blurred outline, and tried to form a coherent sentence, though failed. After a few minutes of unintelligible mutterings, Sherlock whispered, "John."

John smiled. Things were going to be okay again.


End file.
